waters to beat and rage, producing convulsions and transitions, till the moral world attains that perfection contemplated in the final completion of this scheme of Providence.

As well might we object to the necessity of the more inferior animals in the natural world, the patient builders of the coral reef, the microscopic insects, the animalcula that pervade all matter, as to the importance of the smallest event, a single operation of mind in the scheme of the moral. As well object to the effect of the wave rippling upon the shore of the ocean, of the little spring upon the hillside, the falling leaf, the decaying flowers, in producing changes in nature, as to the influence of a single thought in the world of mind.

In ancient classic story, we read of an iron, silver and golden age; a fit illustration of the several stages of human progress in the history of the past, and of what we hope the future will disclose. The early period of primitive simplicity was succeeded by the long and sorrowful years of ignorance, superstition and civil and religious despotism; these, we hope, have now passed away. The silver age of letters, invention, civil liberty and philanthropy has come, and we now look forward with longing and waiting eyes, to the golden time, faint glimmerings of whose light now comes to us through the darkness of this chaotic state, as a token of that morn, which shall dawn upon a world more grand and beautiful than that over which "the morning stars sang together and all the sons of God shouted for joy," when the Almighty again shall say, "be there light" and light there shall be, even the light of the Son of Righteousness, which shall destroy all moral darkness.

KNOWLEDGE AND IMAGINATION.

Science deals with realities. Its province is the real. Imagination lives only in the Ideal-breathes only the atmosphere of fancy. Hence, perhaps, has arisen the idea that Knowledge and Imagination are antagonistic principles, the triumph of the one involves the down

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fall of the other. Knowledge, says the Poet, is but another kind of Ignorance. And it is true. Science teaches the true philosopher how little he can know, rather than how much he does. His heart can never grow proud with fullness, for the solution of one problem is but the rending of a veil to reveal the thousand others still more obscure. He discovers a new truth-- he learns a new fact and Las mounted upon an eminence which extends not the horizon of his knowledge, but of his ignorance. The dim flickering torch he bears, serves to make more painfully apparent the thick darkness that is beyond, above and around him, and he feels that in an eternity of toil, human wisdom might strive in vain to grasp the mighty volume of Truth; and that he may only hope as a babe- to lisp with faltering tongue, the first letter of her alphabet. Science and art have achieved wonders. They have laid bold hands upon nature's deep Arcana have invaded her very Holy of holies "- and reared a mighty Babel tower of facts whereupon philosophers have mounted to the stars. But the Empire of the Unknown is still boundless-nay, mightier than ever; for, not a province has been wrested therefrom, which has not added thereto its thousands. And over all imagination bears a peerless sceptre; and, were this her only realm, even here, poor human wisdom could not tear one jewel from her crown, nor place the feeblest limits to her sway. But in fact, knowledge is the very foundation of imagination. The mind that knows nothing, imagines nothing. It is of the real that we create the ideal. Where one leaves off, the other begins. Science, instead of cramping the imagination, breathes into it a higher and nobler life. As the one strides onward, scaling and subduing, and mounts cliff after cliff, unscaled before, the other close pursues, and scarce does Science gain a foothold on the height before Imagination builds her eyrie there, whence to heights unattempted yet, she swoops away, and whither, like a bird worn out upon the waters, she can return again to rest. Imagination is prophetic. "It bodies forth the forms of things unknown," in dim shadowy outline, it is true, but nevertheless real. It comes a herald of the past, yet speaks unto us as a sybil of the future. It is the advanced guard- the pioneer of the intellect, which clears the and leads it on. way It ventures afar on into the darkness of the future, and calls back on us, aloud, to follow it. In ancient times, nature was all a mystery. their vivifying showers, and vegitation sprung forth, as it were, by

The clouds distilled

not comprehend.

magic. The seasons went their annual round— the sun poured forth its light and heat, and, 'neath their genial influences, Earth gave forth its bounteous store of fruits. Here was an intelligence they could Nature's mysterious powers seemed to call unto the Earth, which answered back to them again. What they were they knew not; hence imagined them- gave them spirits-- and called them gods. They heard their whisperings in the murmuring breezetheir thunderings in the storm. A god dwelt in every distant glen of the dark forest. The Penates hallowed every fireside- a guardian genius walked with every shepherd of the valley; and on every high mountain top, a deity was enthroned who herded the wild flocks that "never need a fold." Who sees not in these wild myths, a foreshadowing of the sublime truths which we recognize? Who sees not in

these ideal deities, a dim, faint outline of Him, who, we know, does ride upon the whirlwind- whose presence is in all space, and from whom cometh every good thing? So, too, upon the dreamy speculations of Astrologers and Alchymists, have been founded the noble sciences of Astronomy and Chemistry; and, though in Heaven's bright pages we may not read the fate of men and empires, their mild radiance reveals yet greater and more wondrous truths. Coy nature has been wooed and won of Science. And at the banquet, sits Imagination, the honored guest, for she was cf both, the earliest and the warmest friend.

THE LAST OF THE SOPHISTS.

A TALE OF THE FOURTH CENTURY.

CHAP. III, (CONTINUED.)

But the jailer could scarcely have had time to retreat from the passage, when he was summoned again, by a commanding voice, and ordered to undo the bolts. The soldier rose from his seat and faced the new

comer; he did not recognize him on his first entrance, but as the stranger saluted him, he heard the voice that had been raised in his defense at the place of assembly. The soldier seemed to consider him as already a tried friend; he motioned him courteously to the large chair, and tendered him his thanks for his kindness on the night preceding, with the grace and dignity of one well used to mingle among men, and with the sincerity of a heart deeply touched. The young presbyter was about to reply, when his eye fell on the manuscript, which still lay open on the stand, and something of severity was in his tone, as he demanded:

"How came these here, Count Glaucon ?"

"They were sent hither by a friend; but it is gloomy companionship for such a place."

"Sent!" repeated the Briton to himself. officiousness of a friend, and permit me to known the owner of these manuscripts?"

"Will you pardon the ask how long you have

"From childhood," was the reply. "We were playmates together, long years ago."

"Ah! you look upon her as a sister, doubtless," suggested the stranin a kinder tone.

ger,

The soldier made no reply; he was evidently turning the expression in his mind.

"Perhaps you cannot confide in a stranger. But, believe me, I have come to you only with the purest motives. You have seen already that I am not without influence in the councils of our church, and may be satisfied of my ability to aid you. But will you tell me the object and manner of your intrusion thither ?"

"For the manner, perhaps this ring will be sufficient explanation," and he handed to the presbyter, the signet of his uncle.

"I came of

my own free will, and in opposition to the wishes of my friend; but not as a spy, at least, not a political spy.

I had heard of the Egyptian who addressed you, and knew him to be a dangerous and designing man, and wished, if possible, to save a friend, dearer than life to me, írom his snares."

"And that friend is the maiden, Myra?"

"She is; you know the rest. But for your interference I had not been here at all, and yet but for your kindness I had not been living. It is but justice to the maiden to state to you that she knew nothing of my intention or presence until the moment when I addressed her."

"And may I ask how you came to be so accurately informed as to the place and business of the meeting? The assemblings of our secret chamber are not usually matter of proclamation."

"That I cannot tell thee. I should do injustice to another."

"At least thou wilt not stay my thoughts. There must have been strong motive to lead thee to a course so fraught with danger. Tell me, dost thou love this maiden, with such affection as beseems her rank and character?"

"How mean you? The

A flush passed over the soldier's face. name of the Count Glaucon must not be coupled with the shadow of dishonor, even by his best friend. Thou art of Britain, I am told, and knowest not that hearts that beat more wildly than thine own, may yet be pure and true. And yet thou hast saved my life, and I will confide in thee. I have loved the maiden these many years, and shall love her while I live;- but it is hopeless now; and cans't thou procure me release from hence ? I have a sire and a country, who yet need me."

The sad tone and averted countenance of the speaker told his deep emotion, the Briton rose and moved near to him. "Pardon me if I did thee injustice; thou shalt be released. But mourn not thus over the caprices of a girl. Doubtless she responds not to your love, and can be to you only as a sister."

The soldier turned his dark eye with an inquiring expression upon his companion, it was the second time he had thus spoken of a sister's affection. He hesitated, and replied not.

"Thou may'st still confide in me," said the presbyter, marking evidently with some dissatisfaction, the hesitation of the prisoner. "Have

I erred in presuming to hint the reason of thy despair?"

"It is a question I should answer to none but thee; and I know not if thou hast right to ask it. But it is not that our hearts are estranged, the maiden has left the faith of her fathers, and regrets nothing I believe, so much, as that the new faith she has adopted has severed her from the friend of her youth."

The Briton paced the floor of the dungeon once or twice, in some excitement, then turned and in a low clear voice, demanded of the prisoner : "But how knowest thou this? It may be but thy own wild fancy. Myra is not one to throw herself into the arms of a Pagan.” The soldier was evidently somewhat excited by his close question. ing. It were useless and unpleasant to discuss this. Suffice it, I